25 Readings | 0 Ratings

Good Friday

Watching my son watching

the tree, its communication

of atoms’ movement. I mean, the wind

commingled–transfer of life

between all things. I wonder

what in his blood commends him

to speak–word without form reaching

up, reaching out to a higher being.

His small hands, upraised, command

my notice. Little life passing,

passing me by. He brings me treasure:

sea-glass slanted on the fence,

sticks and stones from ordinary walks

in an extraordinary world, wasting away

but for our pausing to witness

our children watching the tree.

Posted 04/19/21
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